


Cantos

by MeltinSkelton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Celestial Castiel (Supernatural), Character Study, Crying, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Guilt, Incest, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Prayer, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltinSkelton/pseuds/MeltinSkelton
Summary: The universe is made of songs, and Castiel knows so many of them.Sam and Dean make a song together that’s more beautiful, more alluring than any other. He wants so badly to sing with them.But Castiel knows this composition isn’t meant to be a three-part harmony.





	1. i. The First Song

**Author's Note:**

> I had the thought that a being comprised primarily of wavelengths would have very a different and very musical relationship with its experiences. This is a character piece focusing on that theme. The story is divided into ten vignettes, each related to a portion of Castiel’s developing humanity and his deepening love for two heroic hunters. It’s Cas’ POV so if it seems a little self-flagellating at times, remember that the man literally destroyed 90% of Heaven or something like that.
> 
> Chapter count is pretty artificially high, as the overall work is divided into snippets of experience. I’ll reformat it into a single longer piece once all the vignettes are completed because I hate short chapters and I’m sure ya’ll do, too.
> 
> Unbeta’d as always. Sorry for any issues.

The very first time Castiel hears anything, he hears complete and utter joy.

It is the joy of life, of creation. He is finally a reality and all of Heaven sings to him and with him, welcoming him to existence. The vibrations soar through him, with him. He feels each note against his wings, lifting him. The Song brings with it a happiness like no other. Warm and secure. Adored and adoring. Exalted and exalting. Everywhere, he sees the holy light that composes it.

The light, The Song, surrounds him and tells him, _Welcome_ , _Castiel_.  _You have purpose_. It says, _We are with you. You are infinite. You are real. You are loved._

The wavelengths that make him are the same that run through everything. The stars shout hymns. The spaces between galaxies are breaths between notes. The birth of planets is a triumphant crescendo. When first he sees an ocean caress a shore, it seems to whisper to him like a lullaby. If he could weep, he might, but for eons he doesn’t know how to do more than simply serve and praise and worship, and that is fine. It is all he wants to do. It is all _any_ of them could ever want to do - or so Castiel thinks.

Even when they mold him into a soldier - one of the best in Heaven’s army - he still retains that endless joy and devotion. The Song is infinite and God is in His Kingdom. All is well. Castiel’s faith is unshakeable. Even in war his voice carries the same exaltation as it has since his birth.

When it happens that more of his kind are born - a sacred and momentous occasion - he joins the welcoming song, ecstatic in the chorus.

 _Welcome! We are with you_ , he sings, with every fiber of his being. _You have purpose! You are infinite! You are real! You are loved._


	2. ii. The Mortal Music

When Castiel first takes a vessel, it changes him completely.

 _I am here_ , he tells the woman - Rashida, as she is called. The light of his grace shimmers and dances before her, muted on this mortal plane. _I am with you, and I am infinite_. _You have purpose. You are loved._

Despite her fear, her soul is trusting, adoring, welcoming. There is joy in her eyes and in her heart. She praises him, thanks him. She weeps, and weeps, and weeps before him.

When at last he fills her, they weep together.

The sensation of flesh is indescribable. The sensation of being - _being_ in _this_ way - is strange and ugly and horrifying and so unbearably _beautiful_. Overwhelmed, Castiel curls around himself and yells. He shrieks. He screams. He can’t help himself. She is too much. _Humanity_ is too much. Every sound is distorted and too loud. He can feel the dirt under her hands. The smell of salt and tallow claws at his nostrils with each wracking breath. The sores on her tender body _burn_ and _ache_. He knows what it is to hurt, now - to really _hurt,_ in a way that no instrument of Heaven’s design could inform him. Her mouth - _their_ mouth - _his mouth_ \- is too dry to speak, his lips cracked and bleeding around a sob. He wants to go home. He wants out of her. He wonders why his Father would make her suffer this way.

His grace, simply by virtue of design, begins to heal her even as they both continue to wail. He feels her pain turn into ecstasy. She hears the music that makes him. She sings with it. She doesn’t know the words. She tries anyway, and it is beautiful. She is chanting the word _miracle_ over and over inside of his head.

Her family cries out in kind: _Miracle, a miracle, praise God! A miracle!_

Castiel supposes that's what this is, but he finds himself wanting to tell them that things are not always what they seem. He doesn’t know why.

 _Go forth_ , Michael’s voice reminds him, _and testify_.

Duty overcomes hesitation. Castiel takes her freshly-mended body from the pile of medicine-soaked rags and out into the Egyptian sun, and does as he must.

He tells the people of Rashida’s village of the coming disasters. Floods. Blood. Fire. Plagues. Suffering. Death in ways they’ve never known. He tells them to take their children and run. He tells them that God loves them. That all they have to do is _listen_.

Instead, they scream at her. At them. At him. His ears are full of the vibrations of anger. _Whore. Deceiver. Slut. Harlot. Filth. Liar. Heretic. Bitch._

Castiel tells her she need not be afraid. She believes him, even though he can barely believe himself.

He speaks another word, harsher than the ones the villagers holler. 

 _Sacrifice_.

They drag her. They restrain her. She struggles. Castiel struggles. He could leave. He isn’t supposed to. He’s too terrified. The world becomes a vast tapestry of pain, and Castiel wants nothing more than to stop it. To heal it again. He tries, and is terrified anew when he pulls no strength from Heaven. He cannot hear his Father, or Michael, or the others. The Song lacks the chorus and the emptiness is terrible. He cries out with each new wound. Cuts and bruises bloom where the wasting disease had marked this body mere hours before.

He begs for relief, for both of their sakes. 

 _Stay_ , comes the answer, finally. Gentle and firm. Castiel is able - no, _allowed_ \- to hear again. _You must stay, and you must learn._

Castiel cradles the light of her soul within his grace, and the human melodies gradually fade from their ears, replaced once more with the comfort of The Song.

He regrets what he did to her - what he was _told_ to do to her. Yet she only thanks him. Again, and again. Her faith is unshakeable. When at last they reach Heaven, she tells him she is at peace. That she is happy. She sings again, and here she knows the words by heart, like all the souls before her.

For centuries her voice calls out to him above even his most beloved siblings.


	3. iii. Rest

There is The Song - always. And the chorus - always. But now Castiel knows these other songs, and they plague him.

He feels like he will never be free of the mortal world, the way its sensations and sounds fill every part of him. He feels empty now, afraid. A piece of him is missing. A piece that he didn’t have, or didn’t _know_ he had, or didn’t know he needed. It is horrible. It is unbearable. He treasures it.

Before, he only heard the prayers of mankind through the filter of pity and piety, like the rest of his brethren. Now each prayer that reaches him tugs at him in a deep, palpable sense. He knows how it feels to hurt, and want, and suffer. The prayers are no longer harmless words and concepts. They show him pictures, they carry sensations, _emotions_. He understands so little of it, still - but he understands _enough_.

Castiel knows how to weep now, and so he does. The heavenly chorus consoles him.

 _We know,_ they say. _But you are here. You are infinite. You are with us. You are loved._

Only now does he hear the solemnity in the lyrics. It reminds him of consoling Rashida. It is the sound of someone lying. 


	4. iv. Duet

Castiel is familiar with the mortal song now. It doesn’t frighten him anymore. He’s heard it change and change again. There is a different sort of music in the highways, the cities, the throng of bodies waiting and working and living and dying. The same rhythm but different instruments and words. It all muddles together in a tiresome drone and he hasn’t bothered to enjoy it in God knows how long. There are other things going on. The Song is growing discordant. There are less and less voices in the chorus. 

He can help. They can help. Castiel and Jimmy. A vessel unlike any other. A perfect compliment. A harmony Castiel has never before known. And together they do the work that needs doing, their duet bolstering Castiel’s faltering resolve. It’s the closest to secure he’s felt in a long time.

For a little while, at least. Before things go wrong. Before they keep going wrong again, and again, and again. There are days where Castiel, drained to the point of near-total exhaustion, can only just _barely_ sense the frequencies of Heaven or Earth, or anything except that ever-present arrhythmic chaos. Other days he’s overcome with them all and it makes him want to scream. Jimmy wants to scream. They are both so weary of this war.

The rhythm of his own body fills his ears. He knows the metronome pulse of blood through his veins and the drumbeat of his heart in his chest. The gentle harpstring pull of his skin over his bones. Jimmy’s bones. Their bones. Their skin (his skin), his blood (their blood), their heart. Whose heart, anymore? Who has felt more with it, at this point? Which one of them makes up more of this creature, now? Neither of them knows. Castiel thinks they’re both afraid to ask.

Sam and Dean only ever call him by his own name, or some variation. He likes ‘Cas.’ It sounds so human. He learns to treasure the way it sounds on their lips. Treasures, too, the ever-growing familiarity with which they speak it. He notices, sometimes, the way they smile when he says _their_ names. They are the only other constant in his life, besides this endless, ruthless, _pointless_ conflict. He learns to simply treasure _them_.

Years pass. His body is his body only; there’s no one else to share it, anymore. Perhaps that’s best. 

Castiel sits and closes his eyes. He can hear Jimmy and Amelia’s voices woven into the music of the souls in Heaven. Their particular sort of song is something Castiel hasn’t quite learned yet.

Castiel knows, quite suddenly and heartbreakingly, that he _wants_ to learn that sort of music, someday. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get the chance.


	5. v. Sotto Voce

Castiel sometimes sings to himself the songs of his brethren; only quietly, always only when alone. Mostly when he feels homesick, nostalgic for a better time. Before. Always before. The notes come out rough. He can’t sing some of them at all, anymore. There are words in the songs that his clumsy tongue just can’t perform. But he tries. It’s the only way he can hear it at all these days. There are too few angels left in Heaven to maintain the chorus.

They were never infinite, were they? None of them. Mortality is awful but at least it’s more honest than the illusion of immortality.

He sighs and sings again, in this awful mortal voice. It's weak. It's hoarse. It's real. Every day, it gets more and more real. Part of him is terrified that he’ll never hear The Song at its full glory again. Part of him doesn’t care.

The world is ending for the umpteenth time; _Le_ _t it end,_ he thinks,  _and let me be alone. Real, and alone._

It is better than what he deserves.


	6. vi. The Love Song

They’re at a motel in Georgia packing up their provisions and equipment for the night ahead. Dean is singing along with the radio. Castiel thinks Dean’s voice is beautiful, just like the rest of him.

…For all that, though, he is a _little_ tone-deaf.

“ _Laaaay-la!_ ” He shouts, throwing his head back. “ _Ya got me on my knees, Layla! I’m begging, darlin’, please! Layla!”_

“Dude, _please s_ top.” Sam, moving his big body with the same effortless grace as always, deftly steps around Dean. He drops an armful of Redwood stakes in their duffel bag. “I’m not gonna be any good on this hunt if pop an eardrum.”

“ _Darlin’, won’t you ease my worried mind_?” Dean continues over him, nonplussed. He regales his two-man audience with an impressive bout of air guitar.

“Do you have everything you need for the sealing spell?” Castiel asks them. There was a time when he might have shamed them for their lack of decorum. As it stands, he's grown to really enjoy it.

“Yeah, almost. We just need to—” Sam grunts as Dean leans heavily against his side. “Dude. _Enough_ with the Clapton!”

Castiel finds himself struggling to conceal a smile. “What is it you need?” he asks patiently.

“We need to coat that signet ring with that — _Dean_ , I swear to God,” Sam growls at Dean warningly, trying valiantly to overcome his brother’s weight and noise with a well-placed shoulder shove. It works for one triumphant second. He points to a small box on the nearest bed. “Cas, you wanna hand me the— Fucking—! Dean! _Stop_!”

Castiel picks up the aforementioned box but doesn’t move to hand it over - he can see that Sam has other matters to address.

Dean, still warbling through the song, curls his fist in Sam's coat and tugs him closer. His expression is exaggeratedly pinched and dramatic. Sam stumbles, cursing. Dean leans up to Sam’s ear, his nose in Sam’s sideburn, nearly laughing so hard that he can't keep singing.

“— _Turned my whole world upside down_ ,” he croons, and then inhales deeply.

“Dean, I swear—!” Sam is trying hard not to laugh too, in spite of how annoyed he obviously is.

“ _LAAAAY-laaahh_!”

”Goddammit!” Sam’s composure breaks. He hooks an arm around Dean’s middle and uses his free hand to shove at Dean’s face, grinning and grunting. Dean, impressively, continues to sing garbled lyrics into Sam’s hand. “Shut up! Stop!”

Dean mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “suck my dick” and then blows a very wet-sounding raspberry against Sam’s palm.

Castiel watches them as they wrestle and play like carefree children. His fingers trace over the delicate carvings of the box in his hands. Whatever’s inside of it smells like incense and ripe fruit. The twilight outside stretches on. The sound of the two brothers laughing, teasing, and cursing fills his ears.

Their hearts beat together and Castiel hears that, too - the song their souls make. It’s unusual, the way they converge and separate, two very distinct but inextricable wavelengths. Tragedy and time have made their bond so complex and yet it remains unbreakable. They’ve moved worlds to be together and he’s been lucky enough to help them do it. He’d do it again. He’d do anything for them.

Sam and Dean are not lovers - not in the visceral, physical sense of the word. Castiel knows that. But Castiel also knows a love song when he hears one, at this point.

He feels his own heart singing right along with it.


	7. vii. Hymns and Praises

The first time Castiel listens to them is right after the fuss in Georgetown, and it’s an accident. It genuinely is.

He's minding his own business in his own room at the Bunker when he hears Dean praying. So he tunes in to the thought like he always does, ready to return to Texas in an instant if need be.

_Sam_

Castiel pulls back from the thought, confused. _Sam_? He shakes himself. Shuts his eyes and listens again.

_Sam, Sam, Sammy_

Castiel frowns, concentrates harder. He pulls at the thread of connection that the prayer allows him. Dean doesn't sound upset or distressed. He thinks at first that maybe it's relief Dean is feeling. Sam was recently ill. Maybe that's it: he's so grateful that Sam is well again and he can’t contain it. The thought makes Castiel smile. He’s glad that he left them a bit happier than he found them.

Curious, he listens more closely. He lets his own surroundings drop away like a cloak, shrugging off the mortal noise until its just The Song and his own music and this single prayer - except it's not a single prayer; he can hear an answering frequency looping in and around Dean's.

That part of the prayer, Castiel realizes, actually belongs to Sam.

 _Dean, Dean, Dean_   

Over and over, like a mantra _._

That he can hear them both near each other isn't unusual, since they're almost _always_ near each other, but it's the _way_ they're praying together that strikes him. There’s something about it that makes him want to hear more. To see what's got them so focused on each other. They're not calling for him, so he doesn't _need_ to keep listening, but…What’s the harm?

Castiel lets himself fall into it. Their prayers become stronger, steadier, louder. Excited. Urgent, even. There’s a sort of heat in it that Castiel feels in his temples and behind his eyes.

_Dean, yes_

_Yes, yes, God, yes_

_Please, Sam, please_

He feels a very odd but familiar ripple of excitement, something that moves through his grace and out into his physical body. He presses even closer at the bond until suddenly, like a slap in the face, there it is.

The emotion is so raw and powerful that it’s almost unbearable. It sends him reeling. It’s love, a lifetime’s worth, the sort of love he’s felt and seen between them since he met them - but it’s different this time, so _different_. This time there’s an intimacy, a physicality to it that was never there before. It’s strong enough that he can see it like stills from a film: he’s struck with the images of hands and mouths and spit and sweat, shapes moving and sliding together. He can hear their beautiful voices crying out and sighing and laughing and they’re groaning each other’s names like praises, and God above, he can almost imagine being right there with them while they touch and kiss and—

Castiel rips himself away from the connection, physically jolts like the prayer itself has burned him. He doesn’t know when he backed into the wall behind him but the steel is cold under his sweating palms. He’s hot _everywhere -_ he feels more sweat beading under his collar and along his temples and underarms and at the small of his back. His heart is hammering in his chest. He realizes he’s been panting despite his lungs not needing the breath.The emptiness of the Bunker surrounds him and the silence makes his ears start to ring.

Their prayer still tugs at his mind, small but insistent and sharp as a splinter. He shoves it away.

When he pushes himself off of the wall his clothing shifts against him. He realizes with a hot wash of shame that he’s hard. He’s reminded of April, of the sensation of touch and pleasure. Unbidden, the memories intermix with what he’s just heard and seen and he aches so badly that his knees nearly buckle.

Control. Control and separate. The body is a temporary and fickle thing and he’s _better_ than that. And what’s going on between them doesn’t involve him. Horribly,  _that_ thought makes him ache in a different way that he ignores even more ferociously. He shuts his eyes and tunes it all out, everything but the hum of his own holy intent and The Song. Peace. No more sweat. No more trembling. No more embarrassing ache. No more _yes yes yes_ and _Dean_ and _Sam_ and _more_ and _please God please_.

Nothing more to make him think about what he wants. What he’s wanted since even before he knew what it felt like to really indulge that part of his humanity.

His grace keeps his physical form in check near-effortlessly most of the time, but it’s still an hour before he feels fully in-control of himself. It’s another _two_ _weeks_ before he can look either Sam or Dean in the eye without feeling that same dizzying mixture of shame, excitement, and _want_.

Castiel (mercifully) finds he can recognize the difference between regular prayers and _those_ prayers, and acts accordingly. After a few months, he’s able to tell within a fraction of a second whether or not he should listen.

Oh, but he wants _so badly_ to listen.


	8. viii. Quietude

He’s been helping Sam in the library for a few hours, transcribing untranslated texts to add to the database that Sam’s compiling. The watch on Sam’s wrist says it’s late evening but Castiel feels like barely any time has passed at all. He enjoys the work _almost_ as much as he enjoys the company.

They’ve been working in amicable silence for awhile, alternately reading and copywriting, when Sam asks for his help. There’s an Akkadian text that’s been giving him some trouble - lingua franca is often a troublesome beast, so Castiel understands. He offers to read it aloud while Sam copies it down. Sam, smiling, agrees. He passes the book to Castiel and his expression is so warm and grateful that Castiel finds himself tripping over the first few words.

Sam asks him if it’s because he doesn’t read Akkadian often. Castiel lies and tells him that’s most definitely the reason, absolutely.

He knows there’s no one else around to disturb, but he still feels as though he needs to keep his voice subdued. The sanctuary nature of a library is a universal thing, he supposes. The fraying pages of the ancient book in his hands are as thin and fragile as butterfly wings. He can smell the dust on the paper. He doesn’t remember when he got so naturally accustomed to noticing - and enjoying - the physical world again. It has been a long time since he read Akkadian, but the words come as easy as any other, a lilting song all their own.

When he finishes the page, he looks up to find Sam’s eyes on him. He seems distracted and unfocused. Castiel wonders if maybe he misread a line and caused some confusion.

“Was that alright? Did you need me to repeat something?”

“Um, no, I—“ Sam glances down at his notes. Something gives him pause and he shakes his long hair out of his face. “Actually, if it’s not too much of a pain in the ass, could you read the last passage over?”

Castiel blinks, puzzled. “The whole passage?”

“Yeah, sorry, the whole thing,” Sam chuckles. “I kinda zoned out and missed a lot of it. Guess I’m flagging.”

“If you’re tired, I can just transcribe this portion on my own,” he tells Sam kindly. “I don’t mind. You could take a break.”

“No-no-no,” Sam insists quickly. “I’m okay. Besides, I—“ He shrugs and laughs again. There’s a nervous sort of quality to it this time. “I kind of like listening to you read it.”

“Why?” He can’t imagine it’s any more efficient this way.

“Your voice,” Sam says, and Castiel sees his long fingers tapping at the notepad. Fidgeting with the pencil. The music in his heart picks up in tempo. “It’s nice.”

“Ah.” Castiel rolls his tongue around in his mouth, momentarily at a loss for words. He eventually decides on a quiet, “Thank you.”

Sam smiles at him again and Castiel wants to run his fingers over the dimples in Sam’s cheeks. Instead he turns back to the book.

He spends the next little while reading the passages with extra care. Sam’s low, even breathing fills the pauses between words. Everything sounds much more exaggerated in the open, lofty space. Castiel is again reminded of cathedrals and temples. He could sing a hymn or two, he thinks. Easily. Something about heroes and hunters and the lamplight glow on dusky brown hair and honey-brown eyes and smooth, suntanned skin. Just as an example.

When he finishes the page, Sam encourages him to keep reading another. He’s long since stopped writing any notes. Castiel doesn’t mention it.


	9. ix. Interlude

Dean wanders in an hour later with two beers in hand. He smells like motor oil and there’s grit underneath his fingernails. The tee shirt stretched over his muscular chest is stained and threadbare and dirty.

“Hey, nerds,” he greets, grinning. He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder as he passes by. His bootfalls thud heavy against the floor.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies. The noise Dean brings with him isn’t unwelcome or obnoxious to Castiel. It’s simply a part of who he is, the way quiet is a part of who Sam is.

“Hey.” Sam sits up and back from where he’s been hunched in his chair. He rolls his big broad shoulders with a deep groan. “What’s up?”

“Case.” Dean settles down in the chair between Sam and Castiel. He takes a swig of his beer and when Castiel listens closely can hear the little bubbles bursting in Dean’s throat as he swallows. “Got a call from a guy I know in Denver about a couple of omens out that way. Thought we might check it out.”

Sam quirks a brow. “Can’t this _guy you_ _know_ take care of it?”

“Not his bag, hermano - he’s not a hunter,” says Dean. “Just a buddy of mine with a real knack for the occult stuff. And, just, a real knack for making weed brownies lately, I guess? That phone call was half him talking about the omens and half him tellin’ me how easy it is to make canna-butter. You know that shit’s legal in Denver now? Even without the med-cards.”

“Super,” Sam sighs. “It’s gonna be downtown Seattle all over again.”

“Hey, man. I _like_ Seattle,” Dean protests. Castiel watches him reach over to fiddle with the button on Sam’s cuff. Sam’s fingers twitch in response. "The weather sucks, but whatever. We blend right in. Nobody calls us hicks or whatever ‘cause everybody dresses like we do. Besides, the coffee was pretty damn good.”

“Yeah, the coffee was good up there. Off-topic, though, man. So, Denver? When?”

“If we leave by six, we’ll make it there by lunch.” Dean turns to Castiel. “What about you, Cas?”

Castiel is confused. “What about me?”

“You wanna come see a man about some demons?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side. “Why? Do you think you’ll need my help?”

There’s a beat of silence. Dean and Sam share a glance that Castiel can’t quite decipher.

“Well. Half the stuff we’ve been working on today could come in pretty handy,” Sam offers - half to Dean, half to Castiel. “It’s all Pre-Christian banishing rituals. I’m kinda curious to see how they stack up against the standard Latin exorcism stuff, and we can test it if there’s gonna be demons around.” He favors Cas with another warm smile. “And it’s pretty clear after the last hour that you’re better at Akkadian than I am.”

“Besides, y’know, sometimes it’s nice to road trip with someone who’s shitty jokes you heaven’t heard a hundred times,” Dean says.

Sam scoffs. “Like you have any room to talk.”

“You love it,” Dean dismisses him. He knocks his knee against Castiel’s, and leaves it there. Castiel focuses on anything but the warmth of him. “Besides, I’d love the chance to smoke you out and see what happens.”

“Let me save you the trouble and tell you exactly what’ll happen: nothing. _Nothing_ will happen,” Castiel tells him, thoroughly enjoying the way Dean rolls his eyes. “Just a waste of your time. And _my_ time. And your money, I assume, unless marijuana is a free public commodity in the state of Colorado.”

“Quit bein’ such a buzzkill, Cas,” Dean sighs. “A man can dream.”

“Would you call it a pipe dream, then?” Castiel prompts, and tries not to be _too_ self-satisfied when both brothers laugh their rich, musical laughs.

“That’s a _terrible_ joke, man,” Dean snorts.

“But it’s a _new_ terrible joke, correct?” Castiel asks honestly. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“It’s great,” Sam assures him. “I mean, it’s _awful_. But it’s great.”

“I’m so proud,” Dean sniffs dramatically.

“Thank you. And I’d be happy to join you,” Castiel finishes, and he means it.

“Excellent! Cheers. To Colorado.” Dean hoists his beer.

“To bad jokes.” Sam mirrors him.

“To ancient Akkadian banishing rituals,” says Castiel. He has nothing to raise except an empty hand, so he just smiles instead.

“To getting Cas stoned,” Dean stage-whispers to Sam, and it’s Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes.

Dean  _clinks_ his beer bottle against Sam’s and they both take a drink. They lick their lips almost in unison. Castiel’s tongue presses against the inside line of his teeth. He feels himself salivating for no particular reason. He contemplates the ceiling instead of his mouth. Or their mouths.

There’s cool moisture at his fingertips as Dean presses his beer bottle into Castiel’s hand. Castiel thinks about the way that Dean’s spit is still on the bottle, and stares.

Don’t think about it.

It’s...an effort.

“Well? _Salud_ _,_ Cas,” encourages Dean. “Not a real toast if anyone’s left dry. Chug.”

Castiel doesn’t really want to chug. But he does want to taste. So he obliges Dean by taking a healthy gulp, and subsequently commits every detail of that taste to memory.

Dean lets out an approving laugh. He snags the beer back from Castiel and takes another swig. Licks his pretty lips again. “There you go! We’ll make a scumbag out of you yet, buddy, just you wait.”

“Dude, speaking of scumbags, you _reek_ ,” Sam murmurs, wrinkling his nose. “You need to shower.”

“What?” Dean glares at him, but gives himself an experimental sniff nonetheless. He clearly doesn’t enjoy the results. “Well, _you_ try spending all day shoulder-deep in grease and oil. See how springtime-fresh  _you_ smell,” he grumbles, offended. “I’ll shower later.”

“Why not just do it _now_ , dude?” Sam stresses.

Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s defensive stance suddenly changes, or the sudden curious buzzing that kicks up in the brothers’ shared little soul-song upon the exchange. They’ll never know the way it starts to fill him. It’s like static building up underneath his skin. He fights the urge to shut his eyes and lean into the sensation.

Sam nods gently, and Dean fights back a smile. He stands, throws his hands up. Scoffs.

“Fine, _Princess_ , I’ll go scrub down so you two don’t have to deal with my _musk_ anymore,” he bites, and makes a point of raising his arm again and leaning towards Sam’s face.

Sam, for his part of the act, grimaces and shoves him away. “That’s _heinous_ , man. And don’t say 'musk.'  _Go_.”

“ _Musk,”_  Dean enunciates mockingly. “‘Night, Cas.” Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder one last time before he goes.

Again, Castiel doesn’t miss the wink he gives Sam as he turns, or the quickness with which Sam excuses himself afterward and heads “to bed.”

They know he knows - Castiel remembers that halting, nervous conversation - but Castiel also knows this is still fairly new to them. He gets the impression that they don’t yet know how to proceed around other people, no matter how close, and that’s alright. It’s an odd situation for them. Moreover, it’s their business, and _only_ their business, so Castiel treats it as such. He doesn’t pry, or call them out on their admittedly pathetic and ultimately useless attempts at “discretion.”

After they’ve gone, Castiel sits alone in the library. His whole body feels like it’s full of electricity. He feels moisture beading on his upper lip and his forehead. His palms feel clammy and the coat about his shoulders is unbearably heavy and oppressive. It’s so much like that first time, and he isn’t even listening to them. Everything he feels is his alone - though if he was the blaming type, he could blame Sam and Dean for it anyway.

He could just shut down this body’s inconvenient physical desires, like he always does. He doesn’t. He’s found that the more he allows himself to notice, to enjoy, the less he wants to stop doing it. It’s a slippery slope, and he’s going to end up letting it get the best of him at some point. He can tell.

Time ticks past and eventually Castiel feels that telltale tug at the back of his mind. He ignores it, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It’s never just _gone_.

But it’s their business.

He could make it his business. If he wanted to. In a small way, he could.

He _shouldn't_.

But he _could_.

The library is silent. Even with the hum of electronics, the distant noise of humanity, and the ever-present Song that makes him, Castiel's ears are choked with the awful dead-quiet of _not_ _listening_. He’s so damn tired of not listening.

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a standalone piece I guess but it’s meant to tie-in to the larger storylines started in my other work, Apophenia. Which ain’t done yet. Cause I suck big lazy distracted dick. Whomp. (Jeopardy failure noise)
> 
> Love you byeeee


End file.
